


Confessions and Lamentations

by Selkit



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, POV First Person, The Normandy crew likes to gossip, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Squadmates, friends and acquaintances react, in their own words, to the new turn in Garrus and Shepard's relationship. Because everybody's got an opinion. Written between ME 2 and ME 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miranda Lawson

It's just past 1300 hours on the Normandy's day cycle—kept on military time to make Shepard feel more comfortable—and I'm bent over my desk, analysing the latest mission report when a chiming sound rouses me from my contemplation. It's the alarm I set as a reminder to check in for my weekly briefing with the Illusive Man, and I absently rise from my chair as I touch my computer monitor to silence the timer.

I'm halfway to my office door before I suddenly remember—there is no daily briefing. I don't work for the Illusive Man anymore.

My step falters and stops, and I suck in an involuntary breath, trying not to submit to the unsettled feeling that threatens to sweep over me. I don't regret breaking ties with the Illusive Man, with Cerberus. I know I did what I had to do. Even so, this sensation of being... _adrift_ is something I haven't felt since before I joined the organization.

It's something I hoped I'd never feel again.

I'm still standing there, somewhere between my desk and my door when the entrance chime sounds. Before I can think better of it, I take a deep breath.

"Come in."

The door whirrs and swings open to reveal Jacob, who starts to enter but stops abruptly when he sees me standing only a few feet away from him.

"Oh." He lifts one hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Sorry. Are you going somewhere?"

I smile, hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "No. Not anymore. What can I do for you, Jacob?"

I can feel his gaze on me as I turn to reseat myself behind my desk, but my composure is back in place by the time I meet his eyes. He appears...not upset, but distracted, a suspicion confirmed the moment he begins to pace back and forth in front of my desk.

I sit back and wait, and it's only a few seconds before he pivots towards me and blurts out in rather unceremonious fashion, "So Shepard and Vakarian are sleeping together."

The silence stretches a moment before I raise one eyebrow. "I know."

Whatever response he was expecting, that wasn't it. "You—you do?"

My eyebrow lifts even higher and I lean forward, steepling my fingers on the desktop. "Jacob, I wouldn't be very good at my job if I didn't know everything there is to know on this ship. Especially about the Commander."

His face twists a little as he considers that. He never was particularly good at hiding his emotions. "Yeah, I guess. How come you didn't tell me?"

I give him a scornful look. "I'm not the gossipy type, Jacob; you know that. I leave that business to Yeoman Chambers."

He snorts softly. "Point taken. I _am_ curious as to what you think, though."

"Who says I think anything about it?"

Now it's his turn to give _me_ a look. "Come on, Miranda. I know you well enough to know you have an opinion on just about everything."

"Fair enough." I incline my head slightly. That's the only acknowledgment he's going to get, even though he's completely right. "I think it's a mistake. Or at least, not the brightest idea Shepard's ever had."

Jacob folds his arms over his chest. "Because Vakarian's a turian?"

"That's part of it, in a manner of speaking." I rise from my chair, crossing the room to stand by the viewport overlooking the stars. "All relationships are distractions, intimate ones in particular. But one with a _turian_?"

I shake my head, turning to face Jacob and unconsciously mimicking his crossed-arms pose. "Shepard's a public figure. And you know her, she won't attempt to keep something like this a secret. The first time the two of them go out in the open together acting like a couple, the media will descend on her like a varren on a fresh kill. It's just a big mess that she doesn't need, especially considering what's at stake on our mission. She should be focusing on finding a way to defeat the Reapers, not dodging reporters and paparazzi."

"Yeah, but Shepard's a big girl." I can hear the frown in Jacob's voice. "You don't think she can handle the spotlight?"

"Of course she can handle it," I retort. "Don't get me wrong. One doesn't spend two years working to bring someone back from the dead without developing a healthy level of respect for that person's abilities. I just think, given the severity of what we're up against, that we should be working to eliminate distractions rather than all but laying the welcome mat out for them."

Silence settles over the office, and I walk back over to the desk with brisk steps. "And what about you, Jacob?" I finally ask, raising an eyebrow at him again. "What do you think of our intrepid commander's choice of...partners?"

"I don't really know yet." He scratches the back of his neck again. "I just found out about it, so it'll take some time to process. I guess it's a little, uh, _unusual_ , but beyond that?" He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug.

I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Are you jealous?"

"Jealous? Of the turian?" He looks at me a long moment, his frown softening, eyes lingering on my face just a little too long before he answers. "Nah."

He straightens, gives me a nod and turns to go, but he looks back over his shoulder at me just before he reaches the door.

"And Miranda?" His voice is quiet. "Relationships don't always have to be distractions."

My eyes meet his, and then the door slides shut behind him.


	2. Thane Krios

She loves another.

_—shots fly past our heads, relentless as Kahje rain. Air permeated with the stink of smoke and death. She shouts a warning and he responds, no hesitation. Bodies tense and voices low. Eyes only for each other—_

_—the shuttle rocks with her weight, precarious, dangling. Legs kicking, fingertips clawing at the ledge. I reach for her, but he's there first. Three-fingered hands hauling her to safety, not letting go._

She asked me, once: _"Isn't there a risk that you could lose yourself in bad memories?"_

_—voices rise in celebration. Relief mingles with the euphoria of survival. Across the room, he approaches her, lowers his head to whisper in her ear. Her smile broadens, eyes alive with anticipation. They leave together, elevator door closing behind them—_

Yes, siha. Yes, there is.


	3. Chloe Michel

"I want you to pick up this medicine and take it every day." I scrawl my signature on the prescription and carefully hold it out to my patient. "One dose in the morning and one in the evening before bed. And call my office right away if your symptoms get worse, all right?"

The patient is silent a moment before answering dutifully, "This one will follow the doctor's instructions."

"Good." I give a reassuring smile. "You're going to be just fine. I'll see you in three months for your check-up."

The hanar floats out to the reception area, prescription still wrapped in one tentacle, and I let out a tired breath as I head to my office to drop off my lab coat. Another long shift over. Now the only thing standing between me and a few hours of much-needed sleep is a quick trip to the grocery store.

The store is only a short walk from the clinic, and my pace slows as I spot the blinking neon lights that spell out its name above the main doorway. It seems almost empty as I enter—surprising, considering that activity in the Wards never really stops due to the lack of an official day/night cycle. I'm not complaining, however. After having spent the last sixteen hours attending to patients, the quiet is refreshing. And there's really nothing that helps the mind wind down more than mundane tasks like shopping for tomorrow's meals.

I'm standing near the end of the breakfast foods aisle, comparing prices on two boxes of cereal when movement catches my peripheral vision. I glance up out of reflex—a habit born from too many occasions when I've needed to watch my back—and nearly drop the cereal in shock, my fatigue suddenly forgotten. 

Garrus Vakarian is standing not fifty feet away from me.

For a moment, I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me. I haven't seen him in months, and this turian looks... _harder_ than the one I remember. I instantly notice the scarring that covers nearly half his face, leaving his flesh discolored and his clan tattoos marred. Without warning, my fingers itch to trace the jagged edges, and though my scientific brain tells me it's mere medical curiosity, that logical conclusion does little to slow my heart's hammering in my chest.

It's been over two years, but I still haven't forgotten him all but riding in on a white horse to rescue me from Fist's thugs—a knight whose armor was tough and leathery rather than shining, perhaps, but a hero nonetheless. Relief bubbles up in my throat at seeing him alive, and _here_ , after all those months and unanswered messages, and I draw in a breath to call his name.

"Garrus!"

He turns, but not toward me, and my mouth snaps shut as I realize he's not alone. A second figure strides into view, and I receive another jolt of surprise as I recognize Commander Shepard.

I _shouldn't_ be surprised, really. There's no reason why they shouldn't still be working together—in fact, I assumed as much when I sent Shepard an email on an impulse, asking if she knew where Garrus was. Still, it's not every day that one sees a woman purported to have returned from the dead. Of course those rumors are complete nonsense from a medical standpoint, but she inspires a bit of awe in onlookers, regardless. 

Right now, though, she looks almost...normal. She stands facing Garrus, holding a bottle of wine in one hand, her face upraised toward him and her lips moving. I'm too far away to make out the words, but I can see the laughter in her eyes and hear his responding chuckle. A moment later she leans forward to place the wine in his cart, fingers brushing lightly but deliberately over his arm as she moves.

Oh. 

I turn away, suddenly feeling like a foolish schoolgirl, blinking down at the boxes of cereal in my hands without really seeing them.

I wish I had never sent that email.


	4. Ashley Williams

The restaurant hostess is starting to look at me funny. 

I lean against the wall and stare her down, and she looks away quickly. She's probably wishing I would stop fidgeting and tapping my foot in time with the beat coming from the nearby bar, but I can't help it if I'm full of restless energy, dammit. She probably would be too, if she was getting ready to meet a friend who's been dead for the past two years. 

Especially if her last meeting with that friend went as badly as mine did. 

My head falls back against the wall, and I huff out a sigh in the ceiling's general direction. All this frustration and discontentment and general _wrongness_ has been crawling around under my skin ever since Horizon, and I just need to get it all out. Which is why, after I found out that Shepard had returned to the Citadel to debrief the Council on her latest activities, I sucked it up and sent her an email asking if we could talk.

Given the way I kinda blew up at her on Horizon, I was actually a little surprised when she emailed back, and even _more_ surprised that she agreed to meet me here. But I was relieved, too. It's not that I regret the things I said on Horizon, but the conversation was so short and charged and sudden, and things just kind of boiled over. Shepard is the only CO I've ever had that I consider a friend, and I don't want to lose that without a fight.

So here I am to give it another try. Long, heartfelt conversations where I pour out all my thoughts and feelings aren't exactly my strong suit, but unfortunately, I can't think of any other way around this. 

"Been waiting long?"

I jerk my head down as Shepard's voice cuts into my internal ramblings. She's standing in front of me, arms crossed, half a smirk on her face, and I feel a twinge of embarrassment at having been caught blowing metaphorical spit bubbles at the ceiling. 

"Hey," I say. "No, not long. I didn't see you come in."

"I noticed." She grins, but it's not malicious, and the knot in my gut uncoils a little bit. "Ready to get a seat?"

I wave a hand in the direction of the nosy hostess. "After you, Commander."

She meets my eyes and shakes her head a little. "Just 'Shepard' tonight, okay?"

"Shepard," I repeat, and it feels good to return her grin. "Got it."

We order some food and a couple of drinks apiece, but the conversation keeps going long after the plates have been cleared away. We talk about Horizon and Cerberus and the Reapers, and she tells me about a base on the edge of a black hole, crammed to the brim with technology that the head Cerberus honcho wanted all for himself. 

"Naturally," she says, a hard glint in her eyes, "I blew it straight to hell."

The smile that splits my face is wide and wicked. "Shepard, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that."

"I wish you could have been there, Ash," she says. "You would have _loved_ the look on the Illusive Man's face when I told him where he could shove it."

Nostalgia prickles at me, and even though I've _finally_ started to make some headway in my Alliance career, a part of me wants to leave it all and go blast more bad guys with Shepard. "Well," I say, twirling my empty glass between my fingers. "Maybe next time?"

As usual, it occurs to me _after_ I've already spoken that maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, that we're still too early in the relationship-mending stage for me to make a suggestion like that, offhand as it was. 

But Shepard smiles, and it's a real one, not the tight-lipped expression she gives people who've pissed her off. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, maybe next time."

* * *

Both of us have a few more days on the Citadel before heading out on our respective duties, so we decide to meet up again, this time for lunch in a little café on the Presidium. The atmosphere's more relaxed the second time around, now that we have the monkey of Horizon off our backs, and I spend most of the conversation catching her up on everything she missed while she was...gone. She asks about my promotion, my job, and even my family. After I've finished regaling her with tales of my slightly tipsy exploits at my sister Abby's wedding reception, she leans back in her chair with a hint of a mischievous smile on her face.

"So," she says, "you haven't mentioned if you're seeing anybody."

"Ha!" I snort. "Nope, not at the moment. If you could convert boy drama into energy, I think my sisters would have enough to power this entire station. No need for me to add any of my own when they all want me to help out with theirs." I pause to take a gulp of my water. "Not that there haven't been a couple of guys here and there, but nothing that's stuck so far. What about you?" 

I actually mean the question mainly as a joke, considering the state she's been in for most of the past two-plus years. But her eyes shift to one side and her smile grows sheepish, and my jaw drops.

"Damn, Shepard, you move fast!" I let out a low whistle. "Only a few months back from the dead and you're already attached, huh?"

She waves one hand in a "what can I say" gesture. "Nothing like being dead to make you realize you shouldn't waste what time you have. Besides, I knew him before. We just...took the next step."

"Ooh." I lean forward, planting both my elbows on the table, and waggle an eyebrow. "Is it anybody I know?"

She hesitates for just a second, drawing in a long breath like she's not sure she really wants to say, but Shepard has a tendency towards directness and right now is no exception. 

"Yeah," she says. "It's Garrus."

I don't even realize I've jerked back in shock until my spine is colliding with the chair. "Whoa," I mutter, the word serving as a placeholder as I frantically scramble around for a reply that doesn't involve blurting out, "Garrus? The _turian_?"

...Except that nothing else is coming to mind.

"Whoa," I repeat. "Can't say I was expecting that." And then: "You know, Commander, when I said that stuff about kissing turians, I wasn't actually being _serious_."

Shepard bursts out laughing, and I chuckle along with her even though my brain is still reeling a little. She shakes her head and looks down at the tablecloth, still grinning. "Yeah, I know. And I'm the one that said it wouldn't be necessary, aren't I?"

Her eyes grow more serious as she looks up at me. "But really, Ash, don't hold back. I want to know what you think. I've already started to hear whispering, and I hate that 'talking behind my back' stuff. I know I can trust you to tell me what's on your mind."

"I..." I trail off, take a deep breath. "Look, you know me, Commander. I respect Garrus as a fellow solider, but for me, 'turian' doesn't exactly go hand in hand with 'fairy tale romance.'"

"That's just the thing," Shepard says. She leans forward a little, looking at me intently. "He's not just 'a turian' to me. He's Garrus."

"Tell me about him," I find myself saying. "I mean, I always knew you guys were close, but, uh. I guess I never thought of it being like _that_."

Shepard picks up her glass and stares into it, the ice cubes clinking against the sides as she stabs at them with her straw. "I was on a Cerberus ship," she begins. "Surrounded by a Cerberus crew. My reports going to the Cerberus boss. I was building a team out of assassins and mercenaries and individuals with...let's just say _less than stable_ mental health."

She sets the glass back down and folds her hands in front of her. "I needed someone I could trust. Garrus was there for me when no one else was." 

I tense up a little, but her words aren't accusing. Just matter-of-fact. 

"Things just grew from there," she continues, shrugging one shoulder. Her eyes are far away. "There weren't any fireworks, or lightning-flash moments when I realized I was desperately in love with him. Just a solid friendship, and mutual trust and respect, that became something more."

For a long moment I don't say anything, just sit and process it all. Finally I look back up at her.

"He makes you happy, doesn't he?"

Her smile says it all, really. "Yes."

"Well, good." I give a firm nod. "'Cause that's all that really matters, right? I do have one question, though."

"What is it?" Shepard raises an eyebrow.

I lean forward, an evil grin snaking across my face. "How exactly do you guys...?" 

I stop just short of making any crude hand gestures. Shepard laughs out loud, and for just a second I could almost swear she's blushing, but on the other hand it might just be a trick of the light.

"Well..." She draws out the word and tilts her head, her smile mischievous and her voice almost airy. "We manage all right."

I laugh along with her, and even though it's too early in the day for alcohol, I grab my water glass and raise it high. "I'll drink to that."


	5. David Anderson

"Well," Udina says, "what about Shepard?"

Across from us, the holographic image of Admiral Hackett looks back and forth between Udina and me. "What about her?"

"We have to talk about all the trouble she's causing," Udina grouses. "As if all her blathering nonsense about Collectors and Reapers wasn't enough, now she's running around screwing _turians_ of all things—"

" _What_?" Hackett nearly chokes on the word, and I quickly hold up both hands in an attempt to forestall any shocked outbursts. 

"She is not running around screwing turians," I say in my well-practiced calm voice. "She is in a relationship with _one_ turian. Let's not add anything to the rumor mill."

Udina snorts. "As if it makes a difference. It's a public and political disaster either way."

"Hold on, now," Hackett says, and even on the hologram I can tell his eyebrows have climbed all the way up his forehead. "Are we even sure this is true? We all know the media will say anything."

"Oh, it's true, all right," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. "She told me herself."

An uneasy silence falls over the room. I rub my eyes with the back of one hand, remembering that afternoon in my office when Shepard informed me—quietly but unapologetically—that the rumors were not, in fact, the product of some tabloid writer's overactive imagination.

"She's gone too far," Udina mutters. "It's not enough that she has to take a professional interest in mucking up galactic politics, now she's getting her personal life in on the action as well. And it was you two who talked me into pushing her for Spectre candidacy in the first place!" He swings his head around, fixing Hackett and I with his most peevish glare. "If only I wouldn't have made that call, none of this would be happening."

"Oh, calm down," Hackett interjects. "If it wasn't for Shepard, we'd all be speaking geth right now. You know that as well as anyone."

"I agree," I say. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I entirely understand Shepard's mindset on this one, but she saved this entire station from the geth almost single-handedly. You can't say that she's nothing but trouble—and she's sure as hell been through enough without people making judgments on her private life."

Udina's fists clench. "All right, I'll admit she's had her uses in the past, but like it or not, her actions still represent humanity as a whole."

"Maybe we can spin it to our advantage," I say. "Point to it as an example of true interspecies harmony. Proof of how far we've come since the First Contact War."

"Now you're talking." Hackett gives a rumbling laugh. "A modern-day _Romeo and Juliet_. People love that sort of thing." 

"If only this would have a similar ending," Udina mutters before turning to me. "I already have a small speech planned out, of course. But no matter how we try to make it look, people are going to talk. It makes me shudder to think what they'll be saying back on Earth."

"Honestly?" Hackett says, adopting a thoughtful expression. "Probably that he's one damn lucky turian."

"...What?" he adds, upon noticing Udina's and my identical slack jaws. "We're all red-blooded males here. Don't tell me you gentlemen haven't noticed what a fine-looking woman Shepard is. Hell, unlike me, you two have even gotten to see her in the flesh."

Udina turns away, pressing his fingers to his temples. "I need a drink."

For the first time in possibly forever, I'm inclined to agree with him.


	6. Kelly Chambers

I knew it! I just _knew_ they would make a cute couple. 

And you know what? Deep down, there's a part of me that wants to take just a _little_ bit of credit. After all, it's not like there's any proof that my subtle hintings weren't the catalyst, so to speak. 

Okay, so it's probably just as likely that their friendship would have blossomed into something more without my help. There are certainly other factors to take into consideration, like the fact that emotions are probably running high after a return from the grave—to say nothing of all the dramatic tension that comes with being on a heroic suicide mission.

Still. I like to think that I played my part. Even a boulder perched at the top of a cliff needs a little push to get it going, right? In any case, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Some days, I _love_ my job.


	7. Urdnot Wrex

There's some pretty serious barking and growling going on. 

Shepard and the krogan whelp—"Grunt," he calls himself—are nose-to-nose a few paces off to my right. This throne I spend most of my time on these days is a piece of meaningless vanity, but it does give me the advantage of a damn good view. From here, I can tell Shepard's got her battlemaster stance on. She'll try reasoning with him first, but if it doesn't take, she'll whip him into shape faster than a nathak strike.

That should be fun to watch. Heh. 

Vakarian apparently disagrees. He's standing a little off to my left, shifting in place and staring down Grunt like the kid'll explode if he blinks. His talons clench around that sniper rifle he never goes without, gripping a little tighter every time Grunt lets out a roar.

I snort under my breath. Typical turian, just looking for an excuse to riddle a krogan with holes. Not like Shepard can't take care of herself, anyhow.

"Hey," I rumble. "Vakarian."

He rips his gaze from Shepard and Grunt with obvious effort, giving me a distracted glare before fixing his eyes back on them. "What, Wrex?"

"So." I lean back in my throne and lower my voice, forcing him to look back over at me. "You and Shepard, huh?"

I've done business with enough turians over the centuries to know that the look he's giving me now is meant to question whether I've been on the receiving end of one too many headbutts. "Yes," he drawls, bobbing his head up and down in the human gesture of agreement. I doubt he even knows he's doing it. "I'm with Shepard again. Pretty hard to tell, wasn't it?" 

I bark out a laugh. His eyes have gotten harder since I last saw him, and he's collected battle scars that might make some lesser krogan jealous, but he's still as thickheaded as he ever was. "Not what I meant, turian."

He frowns. Wasn't expecting that, and now I've got his full attention. "What did you mean?"

"You're not useless in a fight," I say. Probably the nicest thing I've ever told one of his kind. "But I don't think that's the only reason Shepard went looking for you again."

"Well, no." He shoots another glance over at Shepard and Grunt, then looks back at me. "She's going up against impossible odds. She wants people she knows she can count on to watch her back."

"That's not all she wants you to watch." I give another rumbling laugh. "You really are oblivious, aren't you?"

Long, slow stare.

"That's what I figured," I snort. "She wants to mate with you, Garrus."

For just a second, his expression is pretty close to what the humans would call "bug-eyed." Then he flattens his mandibles, turns doggedly away from me and grips that rifle so hard I'm surprised it doesn't dent. "Very funny, Wrex."

For a moment, I'm tempted to just let him slog through his own ignorance, but something keeps me talking. Shepard did more for me than anyone else has in well over five centuries. I have no idea what she sees in this lump of leathery flesh in front of me, but I can't find a good reason not to return at least one favor. I lean forward and growl.

" _Hey_."

Vakarian's irritated gaze snaps back to me.

"Word of advice," I say. "Only an idiot would ever turn down a willing female." I sweep one arm off to my right. "Especially one as worthy as Shepard."

His mandibles flare, once. He blinks. The mandibles flare again.

"You're…" He trails off. "You're actually serious."

"You think she spent all that time talking to you in the Normandy's garage just because she really wanted to hear your endless whining about C-Sec?" I'm tempted to roll my eyes. "Once you get past all the fleshiness, humans aren't that hard to read. You just have to pay attention every once in a while."

"But—" His eyes dart around, looking anywhere but at Shepard. His mandibles are _really_ flapping now. "I don't—I've never, uh—"

"What, you've never thought about it?" I chuckle and turn my head back toward Shepard. "Well, hell, if _you_ don't have the quads for it…"

He stiffens and makes a strangled sound. Guess he didn't like where that was heading.

"All right, then." I settle back into the throne. "Best way to go about it would be to impress her with some stories of your previous conquests. Females like that. They don't want to mate with unproven males."

Garrus seems to have lost his ability to talk. I pause.

"You _do_ have conquests, right?"

That snaps him out of it. "That's—none of your business."

"Huh," I say. "I knew you were a little green, but—"

" _Wrex_!"

Now he looks like he's about to explode. Damn, I love messing with turians. 

There's movement to the right, and both Vakarian and I turn in that direction. Shepard is looking back and forth between the two of us, a subdued Grunt standing sulkily but silently behind her. 

"Everything okay over here?" she asks. One of the hairy lines above her eyes quirks upward.

"Fine, Commander," Garrus bleats before I can even open my mouth. "Are we ready to move out?"

"Looks like." She turns to face me, her voice warming up. "Good to see you again, Wrex."

"Shepard," I rumble. "Good hunting to you." 

She grins and heads for the entrance, and I look over her head at Garrus. 

"To _all_ of you," I add.

Heh. Can't say I've ever seen a turian scramble that fast in my life.


	8. Jeff "Joker" Moreau

"All right, EDI," I drawl, leaning back in my chair and reveling—possibly for the hundredth time, not that I'm counting—in that expensive-sounding leather squeak. "Spill."

I don't know how she does it, but damn if that AI doesn't sound downright coy when she answers. 

"I can assure you, Jeff, all containers of liquid on board the Normandy are tightly sealed." 

"Oh, ha ha." I roll my eyes. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Indeed?" If she had eyebrows, she would be arching them at me right now. I can just see it. "Perhaps you would care to clarify your meaning?"

"You know," I draw out that last word, giving an exaggerated sigh. "'Fess up. Gimme the details. Fill me in on the juicy gossip. Inquiring minds want to know, here—and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about this time," I add, brandishing a finger in the direction of the innocently blinking blue globe.

Yes, she _does_ have an "innocent" blink. And yes, I can tell it from her professional, "all business" blink, and her "argumentative" blink, and her "aw crap we're about to explode" blink…

What? I just have to spend a lot of time with her in order to take the best care of the Normandy, that's all. Anything for my ship. 

EDI's silent for a second, and I could almost swear she's about to clear her throat when she speaks up again. "If you are referring to the relationship between Commander Shepard and Mr. Vakarian—"

"A- _ha_!" I crow triumphantly. "See, I knew you were just playing dumb."

And now she's gonna get all prim on me in three…two…

"The Commander's courtship efforts are entirely within the parameters of normal human behavior," EDI replies, slipping into psychology professor mode. "Your species is hardwired with the desire for both companionship and sexual activity. It is no more remarkable than your need to consume nutrients on a daily basis."

"Oh, come on," I retort. "Sure, we humans like to have sex, but the Commander's doin' it with a _turian_. You can't just put that on the same level as taking a big bite out of a cheeseburger."

"Do you find it repulsive?" EDI asks, doing her "curious" blink. 

"Repulsive?" I snort. "EDI, I see stranger things than that on the extranet every day. I mean, uh, during my downtime."

"Of course," she replies with a straight face. You know, figuratively speaking. 

"So, nah, not repulsive," I continue quickly. "Just…a little weird. And not even because Garrus is a turian, but because he's _Garrus_. I mean, have you ever really talked to him?"

"I have assisted Mr. Vakarian in his calibration efforts on several occasions," EDI says. "I find him to be quite agreeable, if somewhat stubborn at times. His intelligence and work ethic are on par with Shepard's. I see no reason why they would not be suitable as romantic partners."

"Well, there's a _little_ more to it than just how smart or hard-working you are," I say. "Garrus just has a tendency to be kinda uptight about stuff. I figure it has to be a drag in the bedroom. You know?"

EDI just blinks for a moment, then says, "Ah."

"' _Ah_?'" I give her a suspicious look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You are curious about the details of Commander Shepard's intimate encounters with Mr. Vakarian—"

I can feel my face blanching. "I don't actually want to know _details_ —"

"—because of your wager with Engineer Donnelly regarding Mr. Vakarian's… 'performance.'"

My mouth snaps shut, but only for a second. "Now, see, I would ask you how you even know about that, but that just proves my point—you see _everything_ that goes on on this ship."

EDI goes back to the innocent blink. "Continual surveillance of all systems is necessary to ensure that the Normandy performs at peak capacity."

"Uh huh." I wave one hand at her. "We can get into the specifics of that particular statement later, but now that we've established that you _are_ , in fact, creepily watching everyone masturbate, I just wanna know…"

I'm actually not sure what it is that makes me stop talking. Maybe it's a tiny sound, a foot scuffing the floor or a throat being cleared, or maybe it's the sensation of a burning gaze melting the flesh off the back of my neck. Whatever it is, it makes me trail off and slowly turn to look over my right shoulder. 

And find myself directly on eye level with a pair of crossed arms. 

I swallow as I force my eyes upward.

"Commander!" I clear my throat. "Hi. How long have you been standing there?"

I get the feeling that if she wanted to, she could break every one of my brittle bones by doing nothing but raising her eyebrow. 

"Long enough," she says. And there we go—one eyebrow quirks upward, and I'm pretty sure I can feel my radius and ulna creaking. 

I try a grin. "Hey, have I ever mentioned how nice it would be to have mirrors up here? So I can, you know, tell when there's someone standing behind me and listening to my every word?" 

She doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. She just stands there and raises her eyebrow at me. So I do what comes naturally: I keep talking.

"'Cause I don't exactly have the greatest mobility ever. And this chair has a pretty high back. I mean, I can turn it around, of course, but it would be kind of silly to do that every time I think someone might be coming up behind me, because there are a lot of people walking around on this ship, and—"

"Joker."

I pull the grin out again. "Commander?"

Her eyebrow stays at that bone-snapping angle, but the corner of her mouth lifts a tiny bit. "Just shut up."

I give a crisp nod. "Yes ma'am."

She begins to walk away, and I'm just about to let out my breath when she turns back towards me. 

"And no," she says. "It's _definitely_ not a drag."

I suddenly find my mouth too dry to say anything even if I wanted to. Fortunately, she doesn't seem to be expecting a response, because she just smirks at me before continuing back down the corridor. 

I stare after her for a minute to make sure she's well and truly out of earshot before I turn back to EDI. 

"Would it have _killed_ you to tell me she was standing there?" I demand.

Oh yeah. That is definitely the "fits of hysterical laughter" blink.


	9. Lantar Sidonis

The barrel of the gun is cold and hard against my jaw. 

I take a deep breath and press harder, and my mandible flares in protest at the pressure. My talons run over the familiar grooves in the pistol, one finger sliding around the trigger. It should be almost laughably easy. Nothing but one twitch of a muscle, and it would all be over.

But an icy grip tightens like a vice around my gizzard, and the pistol clatters to the floor—just like it did the night before, and the night before that. I stare down at it, my eyes gritty and my vision blurred from lack of sleep. 

I don't know if it's the restless spirit of my dead team wanting me to suffer, or if it's that damned turian responsibility they shoved into my head as a child, or if it's just plain and simple fear of what might be waiting for me on the other side.

Whatever it is, I can't pull that trigger. 

* * *

Morning finally comes—or at least, what passes for morning according to my stubborn body clock, since there is no real day or night here in this run-down, rotting section of the Wards. For a long time, I lie unmoving on my bed, staring up at the cracks on the ceiling, thoughts running over and around in my head. 

I don't know how much time passes, but finally I roll off the bed and grab the pistol up off the floor, carefully concealing it in my clothing before I activate the front door and step out into the hallway. 

It's the first time I've left the apartment in almost a week. 

It takes some persistent searching, but finally I track down the person I'm looking for. The volus looks up as I approach, his harsh breaths wheezing a little more quickly through his encounter suit. 

"Out of prison already?" I ask sardonically, coming to a stop in front of him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Palaven-clan," he replies with his species' usual testiness, waving a stumpy arm as though he's trying to make me disappear. "Now if you don't mind, I have business to—"

I pull the pistol and drop to my haunches in front of him, not bothering to hide my snarl. "I'm in no mood to deal with your lies. I know you're one of Fade's contacts."

The rasp of his breathing is almost obscenely loud. "Look, I—it wasn't my fault! They—they threatened me—my guards abandoned me—and anyway, it was Fade who _really_ gave you up, not me!"

"Shut up," I grind out. "That's not what I'm here for."

"It—it's not?" His arms droop a little, and the eyepiece in his encounter suit seems to blink at me. "Then what—"

"Fade used to be C-Sec," I cut him off. "He still had the frequencies for their comm channels, didn't he? That's how he was staying one step ahead of them, by listening in on their patrol chatter."

"I, ah, I don't…" His hands begin to flutter again. "I was just a liaison between him and the clients, so I didn't, uh…"

I cock the pistol. "Do you know why I wanted Fade's help to disappear? It's because I was responsible for the murders of ten men. I'm sure you have no interest in becoming number eleven."

He's silent a long moment before replying. “You make an excellent point, Palaven-clan. What is it that you want, ah, exactly?"

"I want those frequencies," I tell him, my voice low and rapid. "Give them to me and I promise you'll never see me again."

He fidgets, head swiveling from side to side. "You are not hearing what I'm saying. I was only a mere contact for Fade. What makes you think that I would have had access to the frequencies?"

"As the humans would say, call it a hunch," I reply. "I've never met a volus who didn't know more than he was supposed to." 

He considers that a moment before letting out a faint, "Ah." 

I shift in place, tightening my grip on the pistol. "I don't have all day, _Vol-clan_."

With a resigned wheeze, he activates his omni-tool. "Transmitting the data."

* * *

For the next several weeks, I spend every waking moment hunched over my omni-tool, listening to the C-Sec chatter and waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.

When it finally does, I almost miss it. I'm dozing on my threadbare couch when a sudden burst of noise from the omni-tool jerks me from my semi-conscious state. 

At first, in my disorientation, I only hear snatches of the chatter.

"— _crowd's getting out of control—riot on our hands—all available officers needed_ —"

I feel a rush of something like excitement for the first time in months, and it jolts me out of my exhaustion. Springing from the couch, I grab my pistol and leave the apartment without looking back. 

I hope it's for the last time.

I take a shuttle, disembarking near the coordinates provided over the omni-tool, and the faint sounds of chaos grow louder as I hastily make my way down the hallway. Within minutes I catch sight of the crowd, huge and frothing with rage, its screams and yells and protests echoing. I don't even know the full context of the situation—some rally that's gotten out of hand, I think, but it's been a long time since I cared about Citadel politics. 

As I near the crowd's edge, a human C-Sec officer blocks my path. "Sir, step back—"

I bash my head into his, sending him sprawling, and continue until I've blended myself in with the rioters. Quickly I look back and forth, assessing the situation as best I can amidst the pandemonium—and suddenly find myself frozen with shock.

At the periphery of the line of C-Sec officers advancing on the crowd is Garrus, his face twisted with scars and his armor battered and scorched. And he's not alone—that human female is at his side, both her hands wrapped around a rifle. I'm not usually good at reading human expressions, but hers is easily recognizable as both angry and ferocious. Her mouth works as she yells something, but I can't make it out over the din of the crowd. 

A sudden crack of gunfire interrupts my surprise, and I'm bumped from all sides as the crowd erupts in panic, its screams intensifying. Suddenly everything is happening all at once, and I fight to disentangle myself from the scrambling rioters.

From within the crowd, someone has pulled a shotgun. Another explosion sounds, this one closer to my head, and a C-Sec officer jerks and falls, his weapon slipping from his limp fingers. The crowd roars, surging forward, and a dozen sets of hands all try to snatch the pistol up. 

In the background I can just make out the wailing of sirens, signaling the approach of more officers. I twist away from the crowd, craning my head as I try to find Garrus again.

_There_. He's made his way to the far side of the crowd, his weapon drawn but not firing—obviously trying to find a way to subdue the civilians without harming them. The human woman is no longer with him, and before I can turn to see if I can find her, I see Garrus's expression changing.

For a second I think he's seen me—but no, he's looking _past_ me. I pivot, eyes darting back and forth, and catch sight of the human.

She's doubled over, her face twisted with a mixture of pain and fury as a biotic field wracks her body. Her shields ripple around her, flicker once, twice, and then fail. In the frothing of the crowd it's impossible to tell who it was that activated the warp—nor is there time to find out. Less than a second passes before I can make out the telltale bright red of a sniper sight dancing on her forehead.

Garrus sees it, too. Over the crowd, I hear his voice behind me as he screams one word—" _Shepard!_ "—and I look over my shoulder to see him sprinting towards her. 

Before, I've always considered it a load of melodramatic crap when I hear people talking about moments when time slowed down or their lives flashed before their eyes. But now, suddenly, I know what they meant. Garrus seems to be moving in slow motion, and something cold and hard coils in my gut as I realize he's too far away. Even the Archangel can't outrun a bullet. 

Judging from the look on his face, he knows it, too.

The clamor of the crowd fades away, and a scene replays itself in front of my eyes—the human woman's no-nonsense grip on my arm, her eyes flashing at me when I tried to pull away.

"— _I'm a friend of Garrus's—I am the only thing standing between you and a hole in the head_ —"

I don't know who she is or how Garrus knows her. All I know is that I can't let him lose yet another person he cares about.

I close my eyes just long enough to draw in a deep breath and send an appeal to the spirit of my team— _don't let me fail this time_ —and then I take two running steps forward and plunge headlong into the human, shoving her out of the way.

Pain explodes through my chest, and the world slides into black even as the ground rushes toward me.

* * *

Dimly, I'm aware of hands grabbing me and flipping me over, and then the movement sends fresh agony spiking all over my body, forcing my eyes open.

It takes a moment, but eventually my vision clears, and I see Garrus's astonished face leaning over me.

"Sidonis?"

I can feel the energy draining out of my body, and I fight to stay awake, to force the words out. "Is she…all right?" I cough; liquid runs out of my mouth. "Shepard?"

The question seems to jar Garrus out of his shocked stupor. "Yeah, she—she's fine. She took out the sniper and C-Sec got the crowd under control." He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "Lantar…"

His face is beginning to lose focus, and I battle for one more breath. "See, Garrus? Told you I would…make it up to you…didn't I?"

And then blackness closes in at the corners of my eyes, and he fades away into nothing.


	10. Samara

The air is stifling and heavy around me, thick with smoke, with sound, and with tension. I fix my gaze on the wall opposite me, allowing myself to fall partway into a meditative trance—light enough that I can spring to action in an instant if need be, but deep enough to calm my nerves. 

_Nerves._ It is almost amusing to me that after centuries of life, filled with events most would never dream of, I can still feel anxiety. Granted, it is not an emotion I experience often. My adherence to the Code, and its dictation of my actions, eliminates nearly all of the indecision that so frequently plagues others. 

Still, when one is facing the conclusion of her life's pursuit—whether for good or for ill—the onset of at least some measure of nervousness is inevitable. 

My eyes travel to the doorway of the VIP room, where Shepard weaves among the club's patrons. She displays a charisma that cannot be learned, an allure that I know my daughter will not be able to resist, and I feel some small comfort amid the disquiet. I am close, now, so very close.

A short distance from me, a fidgeting movement from Garrus Vakarian draws my notice. With his mandibles flexing and his fingers running continually over his weapon, the turian clearly feels neither comfort nor calm, though his lack of composure does not come as a surprise to me. He possesses all of the impatience that is natural for one so young, and as is typical of his species, he prefers to solve problems with bullets. This forced inactivity must be quite difficult for him. 

Although I imagine that that is not the only internal battle he is fighting at the moment.

I turn slightly toward him, though my eyes and my attention remain focused on Shepard. "You care for her a great deal, do you not?"

I feel him turn to look at me, but before he can respond, I give an addendum. "As more than a commander." 

Even without looking at him, his surprise is palpable, but his tone is resigned when he answers. "So much for not disrupting the crew."

I finally turn my gaze on him. "I am not disrupted, I can assure you."

"Well, maybe not you." He avoids my eyes, seeming almost embarrassed at the notion. "But I figure that if one person knows, it's pretty likely that everyone does."

"The _Normandy_ is a relatively small ship," I agree. "And one does not have to spend a great deal of time around humans to learn that they are often a talkative species."

Within the club, Shepard seems to lend credence to my point, engrossed as she is in conversation with a human male. Her expressions are animated, shifting like flowing water as I watch her, a strong contrast to her usual calm and reserved demeanor.

"I need to ask you a question, Garrus," I say after a moment, as Shepard moves on into the crowd. 

He answers readily enough, though his tone is wary. "Yes?"

"Are you angry with me?"

His body language betrays another jolt of surprise. "I—what?"

"Shepard is your lover," I reply. "You are obviously aware of what a dangerous situation this is for her, and it was my plan that put her in this position." I pause for a moment. "If she is harmed, I need to know what your reaction will be."

He is quiet a moment, both of us watching Shepard step up to the bar and order drinks for everyone. 

"Well," he finally says, "I would be lying if I told you I thought it was a perfect plan. But that said..."

He tilts his head to one side, eyes never leaving Shepard as he talks. "She isn't the kind of person who stays safe. I mean, look at us—we're all on a _suicide mission_ together. And this isn't even the first time that Shepard has gone up against such long odds. This is where she thrives. When other people would quit, she's just getting started."

His voice drops slightly in tone, and I begin to wonder if he has forgotten I am here. 

"Sometimes," he continues, "I think she wouldn't know what to do with herself if there wasn't another threat to take down, or more injustice to fight. I'm the same way, really, so I can understand her willingness to put herself at risk if it means stopping a killer."

He finally breaks his intense scrutiny of Shepard and meets my eyes. "Because it _was_ her choice. You might have come up with the plan, but if she didn't want to do it, she wouldn't have. She obviously thinks she can handle Morinth, and I trust her enough to let her make that choice without getting in the way."

Now it is my turn to feel a quiet flicker of surprise, and I incline my head. "Your respect for her is commendable. However...you did not answer the second part of my question."

"About what I would do if something happened to her?"

"Yes." I nod once. "I do not doubt your sincerity, but individuals in the grip of loss are often driven by their grief and lash out at anyone they perceive to be responsible."

His eyes grow hard and he turns away, and I recognize the signs of someone slipping into a painful memory. "I already lost her once," he says after a long moment, his voice low and rough. "And that was before I..."

He trails off. I do not press him.

"If something happened to her," he finally continues, "I'd kill the bastard responsible. And then I'd make Miranda resurrect him and I'd kill him again." He swings his gaze to me and I catch a glimpse of pain, fresh and raw, before he quickly masks it. "But I wouldn't blame you, Samara. If that's what you're asking."

I consider his words a moment before I reply. "I am glad we have come to an understanding, Garrus."

Within the club, a movement in the shadows catches my eye, and my muscles tighten involuntarily as Shepard stops to talk with the unseen figure. 

"Morinth has taken the bait," I murmur, and look over at Garrus. "They will depart for her apartment before long. I will need you to follow my lead. Keep your distance, but be careful not to fall behind."

My eyes drift back to Shepard, who is making her way to a secluded table with my murderous daughter by her side. My next words are little more than a whisper.

"She may need you before the night is over."


	11. Tali'Zorah vas Normandy

I am crouching behind a crate, my shotgun heavy in my hands, and warm—warm even through the gloves that always cover my fingers. Just ahead of me I hear Shepard barking orders, her voice processed through my helmet's auditory filters, and then a triumphant yell from Garrus as he overloads an enemy into smoking chunks of metal plating. 

Then, behind me, suddenly—a chattering sound that instantly draws my focus. I whirl around and pump my shotgun, staring into the eyepiece of a geth that somehow managed to work its way around to the back of the room. I stare down the barrel and prepare to squeeze the trigger—

—and then it speaks to me and I freeze, as though struck by a cryo round.

"Creator Tali'Zorah."

I can feel myself twitching, mind numbed with confusion. Something metallic prods my shoulder.

"Creator Tali'Zorah?"

I wake with a start, blinking rapidly, and in the darkness of the crew quarters I can see nothing but what Shepard refers to as a "flashlight head"—the round, glowing illumination of a geth staring down at me.

I gasp, adrenaline flooding my system, and throw myself backward even as I fumble to activate my omni-tool.

"Creator Tali'Zorah."

The disorientation begins to fade as the words pierce through what's left of the dream, and my eyes adjust enough to see the familiar stripe of human armor running down the geth's side. 

"Oh." I let out a long breath. "Legion."

The plates on top of its head flare, and I get the irrational sense that it's laughing at me. "Yes."

Now I feel nothing but foolish. Well, foolish and a little angry. 

"What are you _doing_ here?" I demand. "You can't just sneak in here and wake me up like that. I could have killed you!"

The geth is quiet a moment before it answers. "Acknowledged." 

Not exactly the response I was looking for, but what can you expect from a geth? "Did you want something?" I ask.

"This platform does not experience desire in the same way that organics do," it informs me. "We request information from you, Creator Tali'Zorah."

A dull pain begins to build behind my eyes, and I wish I could massage my temples. "Legion," I say, letting out a sigh, "if you woke me up in the middle of the night cycle to talk about improving relations between your people and mine, let me assure you I am not in the mood."

Another pause, as it stares at me—of course—unblinkingly. "We observe organics," it finally says. "We observe Shepard-Commander."

"You and a lot of others," I retort, my voice just a little dry. 

"This unit was created for the purpose of locating Shepard-Commander," the geth continues. "We traced her path over more than a dozen worlds. We examined the wreckage she left behind. Our goal was to know what she knew, to comprehend what she comprehended. Without Shepard-Commander, the reason for our existence would be lesser."

I frown behind my mask, wondering why the ancestors didn't program the geth to come to the point a bit quicker. "I'm still not sure why you thought this was worth waking me up over."

"We do not understand Shepard-Commander's current behavior," Legion says. It extends its head-plates again, looking... _perplexed_ , of all things. "We have observed Shepard-Commander performing organic courtship rituals with Garrus Vakarian. Garrus Vakarian is a turian. No rational impetus exists for such actions. We are unable to reach a consensus on this matter."

Silence falls in the crew quarters as I stare at Legion. It stares right back with a slightly unnerving air of expectation.

"So..." I finally say. "You're asking me to explain the Commander's love life?"

"Yes."

Oh... _keelah_. I can only guess at what my father would say if he could see me right now.

"Legion," I begin, after another few seconds of speechless staring, "why are you asking _me_ this? I mean, Shepard would obviously be able to explain it to you much more thoroughly than I can."

"We went to Shepard-Commander's quarters for this very purpose," Legion says. "She was...unavailable." It pauses. "Garrus Vakarian was with her. Based on the frequency and intensity of the soundwaves being transmitted through the door to her cabin, cross-indexed with data gathered from our studies of organic cultural practices, we came to the consensus that they were engaged in se—"

"I understand, Legion!" I interject, my hands beating the air rather frantically. 

It tilts its head a little, looking disturbingly like a researcher studying a fascinating specimen in a lab. "These observations cause you to—"

"We are not talking about _me_ right now," I interrupt again. The last thing I want is all its hundreds of programs chattering to each other about 'Creator Tali'Zorah.' "We're talking about Shepard and Garrus."

"Acknowledged."

I suck in a deep breath. "Look, I don't know how extensive your... _observations_ of organics have been, but you obviously know that most of us form, ah, intimate relationships at some point during our lives."

"Yes. You seek out others for socialization and reproduction. Many organics form semi-permanent bonds with their chosen companions, often accompanied by official ceremonies or rituals. Wife. Husband. Partner. Bondmate. These unions are intended to create family units for the purposes of producing offspring in a stable environment." 

"That's the general idea," I say. 

"However," it goes on, "interspecies unions are uncommon, with the exception of the asari, whose physiology allows them to procreate with members of any species."

It stops talking and makes an odd shuffling movement. If I didn't know better, I might say it was fidgeting. 

"Organics are hardwired with the need to transmit their programming on to the next generation," it continues. "We had come to the consensus that Shepard-Commander was the premier example of an organic, but we cannot account for this new data. Is Shepard-Commander's programming...incomplete?"

No doubt I'm projecting emotions onto it, seeing things that aren't really there, but it just seems so _forlorn_ at the prospect that I can't help but burst out laughing. 

"Don't worry, Legion," I manage between giggles. "There's nothing wrong with the Commander's...programming."

"Your response indicates amusement," it observes.

"Yes, well." I clear my throat in a belated attempt to force my sense of humor back under control. "I was just thinking it's probably just as well that you didn't go to Shepard with this. I doubt she would be thrilled to have her 'programming' called into question."

Legion gazes at me, its fingers twitching by its sides. "Clarify."

"Well..." How best to explain this to a geth, of all things? "Probably the most important thing you can learn about us organics is that we're all different from each other. We don't operate by consensus like you do—even if the majority of a group of organics do reach a consensus, it doesn't necessarily mean it's the right one."

"Yet this is the method by which most sentient organic societies choose their leaders," Legion points out.

"True, but even that isn't exactly an infallible process," I say. "Look at the Council, for example—the three individuals in the whole galaxy considered by their people to be the best leaders available, and yet they still refuse to even contemplate the possibility that the Reaper threat might be real."

"A foolhardy and dangerous oversight."

"Exactly. So see, that's what makes Shepard who she is. She isn't afraid to go against the consensus, so to speak, whether she's saving the galaxy or linking suits with a turian."

Legion shifts its weight from side to side. "Shepard-Commander—"

"I know, I know." I cut it off with a wave of my hand. "She doesn't actually have a suit. It's a metaphor."

"Indeed."

It stands and watches me a moment longer, and I'm about to ask if it has any more pressing questions when it speaks up again. "Based on your explanation, we judge that you approve of the relationship between Shepard-Commander and Garrus Vakarian."

A geth asking for my opinion on my ship captain's personal life. Once again I'm struck by how utterly bizarre the situation is, but I guess the best thing to do is just—how do the humans put it?—'go with the flow.'

"Do I approve? Sure." I smile behind my helmet. "I think it's cute."

"Cute."

"I mean, Garrus isn't my best friend in the galaxy or anything," I go on, "but he is my crewmate, and Shepard really likes him, and they've both been through a lot. They deserve to be happy."

"Garrus Vakarian pleases Shepard-Commander?"

"Definitely." My grin widens, not that the geth can see it. "They think they're good at staying professional when they're around other people, but trust me, you don't spend your entire life stuck behind a helmet without becoming very adept at reading body language."

"That is logical." Legion's head-plates constrict as though it's in deep concentration, and it takes a step backward. "We appreciate your assistance in this matter, Creator Tali'Zorah. We will now depart to build a consensus." 

"All right then," I reply, shifting back onto my bunk and pulling up the covers. "See you later."

The door closes behind it, and I eventually drift back into sleep.

* * *

I'm sitting in the mess hall the next day when Shepard strides by, slowing as she catches sight of me.

"We're on approach to Daratar," she informs me. "Head to the armory and gear up. I want you and Garrus with me on this one."

"Understood, Shepard." I push back from the table, tucking my datapad under my arm. The Commander continues on towards the elevator before turning back, looking at me over her shoulder.

"By the way," she says, amusement leaking into her voice, "I don't suppose you might know where Legion learned the word 'cute'?"

"Cute?" I echo. 

Damn it. I think my voice just squeaked.

"Yep," Shepard says. "Particularly with regard to me and Garrus."

"I have no idea, Commander," I reply, maybe a little too quickly. "Probably on the extranet somewhere?"

"Mmhmm." Her eyes twinkle just for a moment, and then she's all business again. "See you at the shuttle bay in five." 

_Note to self_ , I think as I start toward the armory. _Make sure all future conversations with Legion stay between you and Legion. _

Then again, what can you expect from a geth?


	12. Matrona, Vakarian Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written back in 2010 before any information on Garrus' mother was revealed, and thus is no longer canon-compliant. The hazards of writing for a still-active fandom...

This isn't the way I envisioned it.

It's something every mother pictures at one point or another, I imagine: the day her child, grown into a fine young adult, brings home a prospective mate to introduce to the family. I always refrained from creating a mental image of the woman my son would choose, never pictured the length of her fringe or the style of her clan markings. But I had always taken it for granted that she would at least _have_ a fringe and clan markings.

My son is nervous; that much I expected, at least. He's doing his best to hide it, but a mother always knows. His companion, however, is harder to read. My experience with humans is...not as extensive as it could have been. 

"Mother," Garrus begins, then stops, as though he can't think of anything more to say. He pulls at his collar, a restless habit I tried to discourage when he was a child.

"It'll be fine, Garrus," the human assures him, bringing a hand briefly to his arm. "It's just a little target practice." Her tone becomes lighthearted. Teasing. "What, you think I've lost my ability to shoot since the last mission?"

He turns toward her, lowering his voice to a murmur, though not quiet enough to escape my hearing. "It's not the target practice I'm worried about."

"It'll be fine," she repeats, her voice still soft, but more firm this time. "Go on. I'll be back soon."

I study my son's face as he hesitates. He holds the human's gaze for a brief moment, and then something shifts in his eyes as he makes his decision. 

"Yeah," he says, and takes one step backward. "All right." 

Some of the tension leaves his mandibles, and his head drops a little. I don't know if the human is fully aware of the signals he's giving, but I can read his body language as clearly as though it were written on a datapad. _I'm not sure about this, but I trust you. I'll follow your lead._

Very...interesting.

She touches his arm again before turning to face me. A loose piece of the odd, fluid "hair" so distinctive to her species falls into her eyes, and she pushes it aside in an automatic motion. 

"Are you ready to begin?" I inquire.

All five fingers on her right hand come to rest on the weapon by her side—one of several she carries—and she dips her head. "I am now."

"Excellent. This way."

The walk to the shooting range is short and wordless. The silence, while not strained, is not comfortable either. I allow my mandibles one twitch as I shoulder my own rifle, my fingers suddenly eager to wrap around the trigger's familiar curve. Life, as always, seems clearer when viewed through the scope. It's part of the reason I suggested a trip to the shooting range as the backdrop for, as the human put it, our "woman to woman get-to-know-you session."

The range is spacious and wide-open, allowing the targets—simulated or live, according to each shooter's preferences—enough freedom of movement to provide a satisfying challenge. I stride to my usual mark and begin preparing my rifle, pointedly not watching the human as she falls in at the spot adjacent to mine. 

It's strange to be sharing this space with this fragile-skinned alien. Normally it would be my mate shooting alongside me, but he is currently dealing with business off-world—a fact I know was not lost on my son when he chose this day to bring his commander-companion for a visit. Garrus and his father have begun mending their strained relationship, but the pace is a slow one. My mate, though aware of our son's... _proclivities_...is not yet ready to face them in the soft, fuzz-covered flesh. 

My rifle extends to its full length with its familiar click, and I draw and hold a deep breath as I take a preliminary look through the scope, fighting to keep my confusion and frustration under control. _You raised a strong and intelligent son_ , I tell myself, talons automatically moving to adjust the rifle's sighting mechanism. _You know he would not choose an unworthy mate, no matter the species._

It helps just to think the simple, firm words, and I am calmer when I release my breath. Bewildered though I may be, I am not so unfair as to judge an individual by her species alone, particularly when we've exchanged several sentences at best.

I lower the rifle and turn to face the alien— _no, Shepard_ , I correct myself. She's watching me with an inscrutable expression, but the corners of her seemingly swollen, protruding mouth turn up when I catch her gaze. I know enough about humans to be aware that the gesture is one of friendliness, or neutrality at least. 

"Everything properly calibrated?" she asks, indicating my gun. 

"Yes," I reply, my eyes dropping to the rifle grasped in her abundance of fingers—an M-97 Viper. A solid weapon, I have to admit in spite of myself. "And yours?"

At her affirmation, I activate my omni-tool and toggle the range's starting sequence, bringing up the program that begins with VI-controlled target simulations before moving to live game. 

The first hologram shimmers into being at the far left of the range, and I waste no time in drawing a bead on it, talon tightening around the trigger. One squeeze, and the target disappears in a brief burst of artificial light. Beside me, Shepard makes a noise of concentration deep in her throat as she follows my lead, her Viper booming under her fingers as it finds its mark. 

By unspoken agreement we continue alternating shots for several minutes, neither of us missing, nor speaking until finally Shepard tilts her head back and sends me a glance.

"I can see where Garrus got his sniping skills from," she comments, her rifle hissing its readiness as she inserts a fresh heat sink. 

"More from constant repetition than from any input on my part," I reply, "but thank you. His performance under your command has been satisfactory, I take it?"

She coughs, an odd strangled sound, but recovers quickly as I give her a sharp look. 

"Sorry," she says. "Just inhaled some dust. Yes, Garrus is a solid soldier. Absolute crack shot with that rifle of his. He's saved my ass on more than one occasion, I can tell you that."

"Hmm," I murmur, lining up another shot on a rapidly darting hologram. "And was it his prowess on the battlefield that made you begin to consider him as a potential mate?"

"Well, that was part of it." She takes down another target as she speaks. If nothing else, she's proved she's a good shot. "I enlisted in my people's military on the very day I reached the minimum age, so I've been surrounded by soldiers a good chunk of my life. It would be hard for me _not_ to notice military skill in a partner."

"And what else?" I ask. "I haven't interacted with many humans, Shepard, but I know that you are a successful and powerful individual. I have no doubts that you could have your pick of mates from among your own species." I stare down the scope and pull the trigger, perhaps with a bit more force than is needed. "Why my son?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and when I look over at her she has lowered her rifle and is watching me. I can't read her face, but from the tension in her body, I have a feeling she didn't expect me to raise this subject so quickly. 

Well. I've never seen the point in sneaking up on a topic. Better to confront things directly than to engage in needless delays.

"I trust him," she finally replies, her voice soft. "I trust him to watch my back when we're in battle, and to support me when we're not. We don't always see eye to eye on everything, but I know that we'll always respect each other even when we don't agree. We've both seen each other at our worst, but we still accept each other. That's a powerful thing."

She pauses, and then bares her teeth in the expression indicating happiness or amusement. "I'm also a sucker for blue eyes," she says, laughing. "They're pretty rare among my species."

For a moment I stiffen, indignation rising in my throat as my mind flies back to my primary suspicion—that she's using my son to satisfy some kind of twisted xenophiliac craving, that she wants something "exotic" or "different" or "exciting" that she can't find among the males of her own species.

But she's laughing, and I force myself to stop and listen to the sound, pushing past the strange hollow effect that comes from her lack of flanging. As best I can tell, her laughter isn't lascivious or mocking, just a simple expression of amusement. 

I blink, my mandibles relaxing and then tightening again in embarrassment. Of course. She was just making a joke.

"I see," I reply, suddenly unable to think of any other response. In an instant all the frustration rushes back, and I take it out on the shooting range, hitting three targets in quick succession. 

I don't want to look at the human, but I can sense both her stillness and her gaze. Another moment passes before she speaks.

"I said something wrong, didn't I?"

Shame tugs at my mandibles, and I face her.

"The fault is mine, human...Shepard. I...apologize. I have very little experience interacting with your species, and it's sometimes difficult for me to gauge your meanings and intentions."

I speak the words like the matter of fact that they are, hoping that she won't brush them off as an excuse.

At first, she makes no reply aside from a slight humming sound, but then she asks, "Did you fight in the First Contact War?"

" _The Relay 314 Incident?_ " I very nearly say, but I bite back the urge to correct her. "No," I reply instead. "I wanted to. I would have. But the universe had other ideas."

On the range, the remaining holographic targets flutter and disappear, followed by a brief whirring sound before the automated system releases the first wave of live game—small, rodent-like creatures largely considered vermin here on Palaven. Shepard stares one down and takes her shot before turning back to me. Her expression is...thoughtful, I believe. 

"Other ideas, like what?" she asks. 

My response is a dry laugh. "Like Garrus."

I line up another shot as I collect my thoughts, hardly hearing the creature's squeak as it dies. The Relay 314 Incident isn't a topic I often discuss with anyone, let alone a member of the species that caused the incident in the first place. 

"Before the conflict with your people," I finally continue, "I was serving a tour of duty on the _Melior_ , whose captain was a very close friend. You might say she was my mentor. As it turned out, the _Melior_ was one of the ships that fought in the Relay 314 Incident, but I wasn't on it at the time. I had been given leave to care for my newborn."

Shepard makes the humming sound again. "That sounds like it was frustrating."

"It was, particularly because I was young and hotheaded." I glance sidelong at her. "Which may sound like someone else you know."

She smiles.

"I confess I spent a fair amount of time stewing in irrational resentment," I go on. "Resentment toward your species, for choosing the worst possible time to active Relay 314. Resentment at my mate, for being away for months at a time on the Citadel, starting his C-Sec career and leaving me to look after our son by myself. In my darkest moments I even felt resentment toward Garrus for being born."

Another shot from my rifle cracks the air, but this time I miss, the animal scuttling away at the last second. I give an irritated but absent growl, my mind still lingering several decades in the past. 

"But resentment aside," I conclude, "the enforced leave saved my life. The _Melior_ was destroyed during the Relay 314 Incident, along with my mentor and colleagues."

Shepard's eyes dim even as they grow bigger. "I'm sorry."

I flare my mandibles, perplexed. "I have never understood the human tendency to apologize for things that are not your fault."

She laughs at that, lips skimming back from her teeth again. "Well, in this case, it's less of an apology and more an expression of sympathy."

"I see." I pick up a fresh heat sink, rolling it in my talons before loading it into the rifle. "Your sympathy is appreciated, but unnecessary. It was a battle. Soldiers die. Turians are aware of this fact from the day we're old enough to hold a weapon." I hesitate a moment before adding, "I'm sure it's something you have first-hand knowledge of as well."

"It is," she confirms, her voice quiet, the loss of a comrade playing itself out in her eyes.

We fall silent, then, each of us mired in her own thoughts, nothing else audible but the rhythmic firing of our rifles. Eventually the conversation starts up again, focusing on topics less weighty, and it is pleasant enough. 

The range powers down when we've exhausted our allotted targets, and we stow our weapons and walk back home, where Garrus has busied himself tinkering on my vehicle parked outside the house. Shepard's step quickens almost imperceptibly when she sees him, while I slow to a halt, watching from a distance as she goes to my son.

And Garrus, whose idea of casual touch growing up usually consisted of a punch or a headbutt, brings his hand to the back of her neck, talons threading through that strange, flimsy hair.

Something bittersweet twinges in my chest. Shepard is a worthy individual. Likable, intelligent, a fierce warrior whose military life has given her a stronger grasp on our culture than most of her kind can ever hope for. And she loves my son, as he does her.

It just isn't the way I envisioned.


End file.
